Abandon

by Meg Cabot

  Wait. Vandalism?

  I wanted to laugh. What was wrong with me? Aside from the obvious, of course. Why on earth had I thought, even for a second, that this had anything to do with me?

  Jade was right: I needed to give myself a break. It was just high school, after all.

  “And I think you know what area of town I’m talking about,” the chief of police went on.

  A subtle shift, I saw, had occurred in the attitude of the police officers standing at the exits. They, like their chief, had their hands resting on the butts of their pistols.

  They meant business.

  “When your principal came to me,” Chief of Police Santos said in a tone that was even more carefully controlled than any he’d used so far, “I told him there was nothing in the world that would give me greater pleasure than to come here and speak to all of you. In fact —”

  Here, the chief of police leaned forward against the podium and stuck his index finger towards all of us, beckoning us to come closer, as if he wanted to tell us a secret.

  He, unlike Principal Alvarez, was such a compelling speaker, I actually found myself doing so before I realized how stupid this was. What could the police chief of Isla Huesos have to say to me? He didn’t even know me.

  And if things went the way I hoped, he never would.

  “I’d like each and every one of you to go home after this and tell your parents — many of whom also attended this fine institution — that Police Chief Santos came and spoke to you today about an age-old Isla Huesos tradition I’m sure many of them enjoyed when they went to school here. Here’s what I want you to say to them: ‘Mom. Dad.’ ”

  His voice rose in both pitch and timbre. Now he wasn’t whispering anymore. Now his words rumbled through the auditorium, making the walls shake like thunder.

  “ ‘Coffin Night is canceled this year.’ ”

  There was an immediate — and undeniably angry — groan, followed by indignant murmurs. People actually seemed upset that they weren’t going to be able to celebrate something called Coffin Night.

  What kind of crazy place was this anyway?

  “People,” the police chief went on, holding up his hands for silence. And he got it. “Maybe you should have thought about this before some of you broke into the Isla Huesos Cemetery last night and vandalized it. Not only one of the crypts, but the entrance as well.”

  I stared at him, hardly daring to breathe.

  The cemetery. Oh, God.

  And the gate. That mangled, twisted gate.

  “The cemetery is not your private playground!” The police chief’s voice, which had been a pleasantly pitched drawl, now rose to a thunderous roar, startling even Kayla, who lowered her cell phone and stared at him with widened eyes. “It is a resting place for the dead. Those tombs deserve respect. You will not desecrate them for your own childish amusement on my watch.…None of them! Am I making myself clear? ”

  I felt the pain in the back of my neck begin to throb harder than ever.

  “Now that I have your full attention,” the chief of police said in a quieter voice, “I want you to know that until further notice, the cemetery gates are going to be kept locked twenty-four hours a day — after they’ve been repaired, of course — just in case any of you aren’t taking me seriously about this. And because there might be one or two of you stupid enough to try to scale that fence” — uh-oh — “several of my officers will be patrolling it at night. Since I’m sure this is going to upset those of you who wish to pay your respects to your loved ones who are buried there, feel free to make an appointment with Cemetery Sexton Richard Smith.”

  Chief of Police Santos indicated an elderly man, elegantly attired in a linen jacket, bright green bow tie, and straw porkpie hat, who was sitting in a folding chair at the bottom of the stairs to the auditorium stage, a briefcase perched on his knees. At the mention of his name, he stood up, tipped his hat at us, then sat down again.

  I recognized him at once as the same man who’d yelled at me so many times for using his cemetery as a public thoroughfare.

  “Cemetery Sexton Smith will be happy to unlock the gate and escort any of you who wish to pay respects to loved ones directly to their graves, and wait with you there until you’re finished,” the chief of police explained.

  Cemetery Sexton Richard Smith stood up again and called, in a deep voice for such an old man, “During appropriate visiting hours,” before sitting down again.

  “During appropriate visiting hours, of course,” Chief of Police Santos repeated into the mike.

  More unhappy muttering from the crowd — with the exception of Alex, who raised a single eyebrow as if he found the whole thing quite interesting. He began tapping a nervous drumbeat along the back of the seat in front of him with a pen, much to the annoyance of the girl sitting there.

  “Would you please quit it?” the girl suddenly whipped around to ask.

  “Sorry,” Alex said, and quit drumming.

  “Who’s up for Gut Busters after this?” Kayla looked up from her phone to ask.

  “I’ve only got five bucks,” Alex said.

  “Chickie here can pay,” Kayla said. “Isn’t her dad supposed to be all kinds of rich? You in, chickie?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Whatever.”

  I had no idea what I’d just agreed to. All I could think as I sat there — feeling almost as stunned as if I’d just tripped over my scarf and given myself another subdural hematoma — was that somehow, John had done it again:

  Left behind substantive proof that he was real, and committed a criminal act while doing so.

  A criminal act that the Isla Huesos police — just like the police back in Connecticut, who’d felt they’d had no other choice because how could they blame a six-foot four-inch shadow, who, though he’d shown up on video, had left no footprints or fingerprints? — were going to blame on me.

  Could my day possibly get any worse?

  But it turned out my day could get worse. Lots worse.

  Because when I walked into the New Pathways offices after the assembly to get my phone — Alex and Kayla trailing behind me, bickering over why we even had to stop to pick up my phone since I’d said no one ever called me, anyway — who should I find in there chatting up Tim and Jade and the other counselors but my mom?

  But that wasn’t the worst part. Not by a long shot. Because sitting quietly in one of the purple vinyl chairs in the waiting area, peering down at an outdated copy of Time magazine through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, was Cemetery Sexton Richard Smith. His straw hat and the briefcase were both sitting on the chair next to him. On top of the briefcase was a necklace.

  My necklace.

  “This way there never passeth a good soul;

  And hence if Charon does complain of thee,

  Well mayst thou know now what his speech imports.”

  DANTE ALIGHIERI, Inferno, Canto III

  My heart did a double flip inside my chest as soon as I laid eyes on it. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been longing for it until I saw it in someone else’s possession.

  But it wasn’t in just anyone else’s possession. My necklace was in the hands of the cemetery sexton. What did that even mean?

  I was guessing nothing good.

  “Oh, hi, honey!” Mom cried. She managed to restrain herself from flinging her arms around me and giving me a big hug in front of everyone.

  But you could tell that’s what she wanted to do.

  “I hope you don’t mind my stopping by,” she said. “I know you were supposed to give her a lift home, Alex, but I just couldn’t wait. I wanted to see for myself how everything went. I swear, I had worse first-day jitters than you kids!”

  No. I don’t think you did, Mom. See, you don’t know what happened to me last night in the cemetery. You slept right through the storm.

  And you don’t have any idea what that old man sitting in that vinyl chair over there is about to do. Neither do I, actually.

  But he can’t pro
ve anything. Anyone could have a necklace like that. Well, maybe not anyone. And maybe not quite like that…

  But it doesn’t matter. So long as he doesn’t do anything to make me mad.

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” I said to her, going over and giving her a little half hug. I hoped she wouldn’t be able to feel how hard I was trembling. “Things went great today.”

  Lie. And they were clearly about to get much, much worse.

  “Oh,” Mom said, squeezing me back, “I’m so glad. Not that I expected things to go any other way,” she added in a low voice, “but I couldn’t help feeling a little worried when I drove up and saw all those police cars outside.…”

  “Oh, that was nothing,” I said, careful to keep my gaze averted from the cemetery sexton.

  “Oh, right,” Kayla said with a sarcastic laugh. “Nothing. Just trying to keep the student body from rising up and killing Principal Alvarez because he canceled Coffin Night. Again. The usual.”

  “Coffin Night?” Mom let out a happy bubble of laughter. If someone had walked in who didn’t know better, they might have mistaken her for a member of the New Pathways staff, not a mom. She didn’t look all that much different from them, except for not having any tattoos. The main difference was that Mom was wearing a navy blue polo with the white Isla Huesos Marine Institute insignia on it. The IHMI is where she’d gotten a job down here. By getting a job, I mean it’s where she’d donated a big chunk of the money she got from Dad in the divorce settlement.

  Given her credentials, I’m sure the IHMI would have hired Mom anyway. But they wouldn’t have been able to pay her a salary, since they were so low on funding. Now — thanks to Mom — they had tons. And the spoonbills — whose population really had been decimated, owing in large part to Dad’s company — had a fighting chance…not just the spoonbills, either, but a lot of other local marine life.

  Sometimes it was kind of a relief to know that not all of my parents’ marital problems stemmed from my accident alone.

  “Don’t tell me Isla Huesos High still has a Coffin Night,” Mom was saying, excited as a kid, shaking hands with Kayla, who’d introduced herself. Kayla apparently loved introducing herself to people. I wasn’t sure why she was in New Pathways, but shyness was not one of her issues.

  “Well, let’s just say the administration is doing everything in its power to see to it that it doesn’t,” Tim said. “But old habits die hard.”

  I was having a difficult time following the conversation while also keeping an eye on Cemetery Sexton Smith. Did he recognize me from all those times he’d asked me to get off my bike and show some respect for the deceased? Surely not.

  And even if he did, so what? He didn’t know that was my necklace or that I’d been in the graveyard last night or that I had anything to do with what had happened to the gate.

  Except, of course, there was that clump of hair — the strands I’d pulled from my head while dramatically removing the necklace to give it back to John — still attached to the gold chain. I could see the dark brown tangle now against the lighter brown leather of his briefcase.

  Could he demand a DNA sample from me? Not without a warrant.

  But even if he could, so what? I’d been in the cemetery lots of times — starting as far back as a decade ago. He couldn’t prove I’d been in there last night. And I certainly hadn’t done anything to the gate! How could I? I’m just a debutante from the Westport Academy for Girls.

  Or at least I would have been if I hadn’t been kicked out for assault.

  “Speaking of old habits dying hard,” Tim said. “Congratulations, Pierce. One day down, no ISSes or OSSes. Keep up the good work.” He opened a drawer and pulled out my cell phone, presenting it to me with a flourish.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking it from his outstretched hand. Director of the New Pathways program, Tim was closer to my mom’s age than to Jade’s, which meant he didn’t tend to use words like epic or have any noticeable tattoos. Instead, he said things like ISS — In-School Suspension — and OSS — Out-of-School Suspension — and wore a tie.

  “So can we go now?” Alex asked so impatiently that Jade, who’d been leaning against her office door with her jar of red licorice whips cradled in her arms, burst out laughing.

  “What’s the rush, dude?” she asked, tilting the licorice jar in his direction. “Can’t wait to get started on all that homework?”

  “We’re going to the Queen,” Kayla explained, digging her hand into the jar after Jade passed it to her, Alex having shaken his head. “And we want to get there before the teeming hordes.”

  “Oh,” Mom said, with a look I recognized. It was the same look she’d worn when Jade had mentioned Coffin Night, whatever that was…Mom’s look of dewy-eyed nostalgia for happier days gone by. “Do kids still go to that place across from Higgins Beach after school to get ice cream?”

  “Yes,” Alex said shortly. “Which is why we have to hurry. I need more than just fat-free licorice to satisfy my three-fifteen sugar fix.”

  Everyone laughed…except Cemetery Sexton Smith, who laid down his magazine, then climbed to his feet.

  “I wouldn’t joke about fixes if I were you, young man,” he said to Alex gravely. “Especially considering how much time your father served in jail, and for what.”

  The laughter stopped as abruptly as if it had just been swept away by one of last night’s forty-mile-an-hour winds.

  “I beg your pardon,” Mom said tensely, turning towards Cemetery Sexton Smith. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Deborah Cabrero, and this is my daughter, Pierce. Alex is my nephew. Christopher Cabrero — his father — is my brother.”

  “I know,” Cemetery Sexton Smith said. He didn’t look uncomfortable at all. He looked like standing around in the New Pathways offices in his linen jacket and bow tie, making trouble, was all he had on his agenda for the day.

  Which, considering he worked in a cemetery that now kept its (broken) gate locked 24/7, probably was all he had on his agenda for the day.

  “It’s a shame what happened to your brother. Unnecessary, too. I’d hate to see this one go down the same path.” Mr. Smith’s dark-eyed gaze settled on Alex, who flushed angrily all the way to his jet-black hairline.

  But before Alex had time to respond, Mr. Smith turned to look at my mom over the tops of his gold-rimmed spectacles and said, “Things turned out very differently for you than they did for your brother, didn’t they, Deborah? I used to play bocce with your father before he passed. He was very proud of you. What a shame you couldn’t seem to visit more often while he was still alive.” I didn’t miss the reproach in his tone and didn’t see how Mom could, either…but you never knew with her. A lot of times, her head was off with the spoonbills. “But you’re back in Isla Huesos for the time being, I see. I hope you’ll be able to show a little more support for Christopher now than you did back then.”

  Mom’s eyes were as wide as quarters. I was pretty sure this time, her head wasn’t off with the spoonbills. She’d registered the rebuke about failing to visit Grandpa before he died. And the one about failing to support Uncle Chris…whatever it had meant.

  Even before I looked down, the back of my neck had already begun to throb.

  But once I glanced at the cemetery sexton’s shoes, I knew it was all over.

  Tassels.

  “I’m not sure I really understand what you’re referring to, Mr. Smith,” Mom was saying in a tightly restrained voice. “But thank you for the concern. My brother has been doing very well since his release —”

  “Has he?” Cemetery Sexton Smith asked, sounding genuinely pleased to hear it. “Well, that’s good. He was quite a popular boy, if I remember, back in high school. He must have nonstop visitors —”

  What? That couldn’t be right. No one at all had stopped by to see Uncle Chris, at least the times I’d been over at Grandma’s for dinner or to hang out with Alex or just to sit on the couch and watch the Weather Channel in silence with his dad. That channel wasn’t bad
, actually. It had a lot of shows about people almost getting sucked up into tornadoes.

  “You two,” Grandma would always declare when she’d come in after a long day from Knuts for Knitting. “Like peas in a pod! How can you drink that stuff? It rots your brain, you know. Pierce, does your doctor know how many sodas you drink a day? I don’t care if it’s diet. I thought you weren’t supposed to be having caffeine. That’s what your mom says. You get more like your father every day. Christopher, would you kindly stop encouraging her?”

  Check yourself before you wreck yourself.

  But what the cemetery sexton was saying was undoubtedly true. Uncle Chris, like my mom, had apparently been quite popular in high school. When we’d walked into the main building of IHHS — what was now called A-Wing — to deliver my transcripts from Westport Academy and sign me up for my classes this year, Alex had pointed out the trophy case. Uncle Chris’s name had been all over it. Mom’s, too, for stuff like tennis and swimming. Grandpa had been there for track, and Grandma for being homecoming queen.

  The Cabrero family had been all over A-Wing.

  All except Alex. And me, of course.

  My mom was standing in the New Pathways office in D-Wing, biting her lower lip while staring at the floor…though not in the direction of the tassels on Mr. Smith’s shoes. Which I couldn’t understand. How could she not see them? How could anyone look at anything else? They were so ugly.

  I glanced at the necklace. I wasn’t even wearing it, and it was starting to turn the color of a bruise.

  I needed to get out of there, I realized, before something terrible happened.

  “Well,” Tim was saying in an aggressively cheerful voice, breaking the sudden silence. “Alexander is enrolled in our New Pathways program, and he’s doing great. He’s a super kid.”

  “I’m so very pleased to hear that.” Richard Smith eyed Alex over the lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses. But while his mouth might have been saying the word pleased, his gaze didn’t seem it. “I stopped by because I had something of a great deal of importance I wanted to discuss.”